


Worm Tamer

by PazithiGallifreya



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: A man was once called Grìma, until he was not. Then suddenly he was, again.Why did a man lose his name, and how did he regain it?Wormtongue chooses Frodo's offer over Saruman's goading.





	1. Red Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is kinda on hiatus until I figure out what to do with it. Just FYI

 

 

He'll wrap you in his arms,  
Tell you that you've been a good boy  
He'll rekindle all the dreams  
It took you a lifetime to destroy  
He'll reach deep into the hole  
Heal your shrinking soul  
But there won't be a single thing that you can do

You're one microscopic cog  
In his catastrophic plan  
Designed and directed by  
His red right hand

 

\- "Red Right Hand," Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

 

* * *

 

 

 

> _[Saruman] walked away, and the hobbits made a lane for him to pass; but their knuckles whitened as they gripped on their weapons. Wormtongue hesitated, and then followed his master._
> 
> _'Wormtongue!' called Frodo. 'You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways.'_
> 
> _Wormtongue halted and looked back at him, half prepared to stay. Saruman turned. 'No evil?' he cackled. 'Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding? You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?'_
> 
> _Wormtongue cowered down and whimpered: 'No, no!'_
> 
> _'Then I will,' said Saruman. 'Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately. No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me.'_
> 
> _A look of wild hatred came into Wormtongue's red eyes. 'You told me to; you made me do it,' he hissed._
> 
> _Saruman laughed. 'You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!' He kicked Wormtongue in the face as he grovelled._

 

\- Return of the King, chapter "The Scouring of the Shire"

 

* * *

 

Many a gathered hobbit instinctively cringed as Saruman's boot came down onto the face of his servant, a sickening crunch heralding the breaking of a nose, and possibly more. Saruman turned and made off, confident in the knowledge that the beast he kept would follow obediently, whatever its injuries. For a moment, said beast tensed, pulling his legs beneath him as though readying to leap, coiling something within himself, like the serpent whose tongue he'd once been named for. The wild energy drained from him after a few long heartbeats, and the one who had once been called Grìma sagged where he crouched, sinking to sit in the dust of the earth.

Saruman turned on his heel to address his servant's apparent disobedience. He did not bother to issue another order to follow but returned to him, reaching down to grab his Worm by the collar, violently yanking the shrunken frame up in one fist by the filthy rags he wore. The Worm cried out, in pain or in terror, or some mixture of both.

Before Frodo could recover or speak a word, three hobbit-bows twanged and Saruman fell dead.

 

* * *

 

“ _Boy! Hurry up--”_

_A thin, dark-haired boy of perhaps ten years rushed to catch up with the impatient stride of his father. He struggled under the weight of the final grain sack as he hurried to get it loaded onto the cart._

_Edoras was a full day's ride to the south from their home in Woodhurst, and his father's temper was short enough most of the time. The markets in Rohan's capital would be near full to bursting soon as the harvest wore on, and if they did not arrive early, they'd be pushed to the back of the line and would not get a good price, and they depended on the cut they took of the sales from the farmers to feed their own bellies during the winter, never mind the farmers themselves._

_Grìma knew better than to duck the swat his father sent at the back of his head as he climbed up on the grain sacks in the back of the cart. He settled himself as comfortably as he might as Gálmód left him and took the seat at the front and gave the reins a snap, sending the horse on its way down the road._

_The day was fair enough, only a few stray clouds dotting the sky like sheep, but Grìma's expression on this day was as dour as his name might suggest. There was an empty space beside his father, where his mother had sat this time last year, before the fever took her. The boy did his best to look anywhere else._

 

* * *

 

The crowd dispersed after a few minutes, many whispering and murmuring about the choice of Master Frodo Baggins. For his own part, Frodo pushed their misgivings from his mind. He'd made the offer of food and shelter and he would not rescind it, whatever the danger. Sauron had ruined much across Arda, and even the Shire had not been spared. He would not willingly add to such injuries.

The man laying in the dusty path leading to his own former doorstep was indeed in poor shape, that much was obvious. Pale, bruised, painfully thin, and now bleeding profusely at the nose. Frodo sighed and stood over Wormtongue, feeling quite weary. His companions waited nearby. Sam had already expressed his reservations, as Frodo had expected.

Frodo's pity did not override his caution entirely, however. He glanced back at Merry and gestured for him to stand close. Sam, of course, came forward as well. Frodo halted them a few feet back – close enough to intervene if necessary, but far enough to not crowd in.

Wormtongue was one of the big people, but curled in on himself as he was, he hardly cut an intimidating figure, even if Frodo had had any lingering fears of his kind. As it was, Frodo had to crouch to look into the man's eyes and place a hand gingerly on his angular shoulder, ignoring the feel of sharp bones with little flesh upon them. He also steadfastly ignored the stench of one who had clearly not bathed in recent memory, but he spoke in low tones that he hoped were of some comfort. Wormtongue's eyes darted wildly, skimming past Frodo's face to those of his companions. He leaned up just slightly, his head turning one way and then another.

Through some measure of intuition, Frodo pointed at the shriveled mass laying in the path just feet away. “Your former master is no more, he cannot harm you any longer.”

Wormtongue sank to the ground again, going as slack as a ragdoll. His eyes screwed shut tightly as he grimaced, tears escaping despite all apparent attempts at stemming their flow, mixing with the blood still seeping from his nose.

Frodo startled as Sam's hand gripped his shoulder sympathetically. “I think you've got your work cut out for you, Mister Frodo, if you're truly determined to help this old villain. Not sure it's such a good idea, though.”

Frodo reached up to squeeze Sam's fingers. “I know things went ill with Gollum, but I had to try then, and I must try again. Sauron may be defeated, Sam, but he is not wholly defeated until the ill he wrought is mended as much as it may be.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Days blended together in something of a fog as years passed. Grìma grew in stature, but not, perhaps, as much as some of the other boys in Woodhurst of a similar age. They swiftly outstripped him in both height and strength, and were quick to remind him of this fact on many occasions._

“ _Go back to Dunland, half-breed!”_

_They shouted this at him as though they themselves were not also of mixed blood. His mother had been born in Dunland, true, and had granted to her son her dark hair and narrow face, but Woodhurst and most of the Stonedeans were well known in the rest of Rohan for being, as they said, half-breeds. In any case, Grìma had never set eyes on nor foot in Dunland and knew of it only a few disjointed stories he'd been told when he was much younger._

_And besides, his mother was dead._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was nearly sunset by the time Frodo managed to convince Wormtongue to budge from his old garden path. The man seemed scarcely aware of what was around him, muttering occasionally but unable, it seemed, to engage in the simplest conversation.

It had taken patient coaxing, but Frodo and Sam finally had him indoors, at least. Bag End was in no fit state yet for anyone to live in, and so Frodo found himself in the Cottons' sitting room with his peculiar new charge. Wormtongue was hunched cross-legged before the Cottons' hearth, staring into the dancing flames as though they held some precious secret.

His hosts were understandably leery of the ghoulish looking man, but Lily and Farmer Cotton had gamely humored Frodo's request to shelter him. Bagshot row, including Bag End, needed to be reconstructed, and while Frodo had hopes it could be done swiftly, it would no doubt take many weeks. Sam was off somewhere further inside the smial, no doubt reacquainting himself with Rosie Cotton, whom he still very clearly favored, and the thought warmed Frodo more than the fire.

Frodo nearly dozed now, slouching in his chair. He was once again in the Shire, surrounded by his own people. If he let his mind wander far enough, he could almost pretend the last year had never happened, although the illusion was ever brief and flimsy. Drifting in and out of sleep, the view of the fireplace and of Wormtongue in front of him interspersed with fleeting dreams both pleasant and unsettling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Market week always went more or less the same, now that Grìma accompanied his father alone. They'd arrive at the city, greet the guards at the gate and announce themselves, to be pointed toward the square surrounding a large fountain. If they arrived early enough, they could pull the overburdened cart into a prime spot next to the main street. Late arrival would send them to a grassy area at the back where fewer would glance their way._

_When his mother was alive, she and her son would remain with Gálmód, smiling at potential buyers as they passed. His mother would make conversation with the women of Edoras, leaving only briefly to shop at the nearby stalls selling cloth, needles and thread, cooking tools, and other necessities, her young son's hand swinging from her own. Her foreign features had garnered looks of suspicion on occasion, and made it difficult for her to gain a fair price from time to time, but mostly people were kind, and would smile at the young mother and her little boy, perhaps give him a bite of something or a cup of water._

_Now, a motherless boy of thirteen, he was summarily dragged off the cart and told not to return until sunset. He cast a churlish glance back at his father, muttering oaths under his breath and jamming his hands into his pockets as he stalked off._

_He pushed through the market crowd, determined to put as much distance as he could between his father and himself. He hated his father with his fair hair unlike his own, and the angry blue eyes that were rather too familiar. He hated the hard looks his black hair earned him from strangers as he passed through the city. He hated the way the eyes of the city guards followed him, as though they expected him to steal something in broad daylight. So, he tried not to look at any of them at all._

_He should have paid more attention, perhaps, as he aimlessly scaled the steps that wound up the hill where Meduseld stood, and walked right into the back of an old man clad in white. He lost his balance and fell backwards, tipping to tumble back down to the square below, when a thin but deceptively strong hand grasped him by the wrist._

“ _Careful, young man.”_

 

* * *

 

Frodo woke slowly, still propped in the chair he'd apparently spent the night in. A light blanket had been draped over him, most likely by Rosie Cotton or perhaps her mother Lily. A couple of heavier blankets, neither alone quite enough to do the job, had been thrown over Wormtongue, who was no longer sitting but rather curled up in the manner of a dog on the rug before the Cottons' hearth. The fire had gone out some time ago, but it was not particularly cold this time of year.

Voices drifted through the archway leading to the kitchen. _“Don't know what Mister Frodo was thinking, bringing that man with him. I'll do as he asks, as the Shire owes him too much to refuse him any request, but I can't say I like it. That Worm may not have been quite so wicked as his master, but he's still a rascal, make no mistake!”_ That was Farmer Cotton's voice, rough with years of ale and Old Toby. It was followed by a more feminine sounding sigh, and the clink of a teacup against a saucer. _“He doesn't look like he has much fight left in him, if you ask me. Half-starved and beaten, like a dog, he is. I do wonder why he stayed with that wizard so long? If I'd been treated half so poorly, I think I'd have run away at the first chance-- Do you think he really.... what that awful wizard said... to poor Lotho?”_ A long, uncomfortable pause, before Rosie's father responded to her. _“If he did eat up old Lotho, it didn't do him much good, did it? Surprised he doesn't rattle when he moves, truth be told.”_

Frodo stretched and stood, feeling his joints pop. Sleeping in chairs is never the most comfortable way to spend a night, although it was pure luxury compared to some of the beds he'd been obliged to make for himself in recent months. He watched Wormtongue for several long moments. The man was breathing slowly but evenly, laid on his side facing the fireplace with his arms and legs pulled tightly into his chest and his head tucked nearly into his own knees. The memory of Smeagol superimposed itself over the image in front of him and Frodo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push the phantom aside. He added his blanket to the two the man was already wrapped in and went toward the kitchen to join the Cottons at breakfast.

 

* * *

 

_Grìma shifted his weight from one foot to another, trying to stave off cramp. The scrolls in his arms were dusty and it was making his nose itch and his eyes water, but if he tried to rub at either he'd drop the lot, and for some reason, it felt very important not to disappoint this man. Saruman was his name, he'd been told, and he was a wizard. “A keen young lad like you could be of use to me,” he'd said._

_Grìma tried to stand still where he'd been instructed to stay, although nobody was particularly paying attention to him at the moment. The wizard was on the other side of a long room full of shelves jammed with paper and scrolls and even proper_ books, _which he'd never seen up close before. He was speaking in low tones to some sort of adviser of the king, Theoden. Grìma was not bold enough to move from his appointed place, but he leaned forward, straining to hear what was being said between the wizard and the scribe._

 _Grìma knew little of wizards. He'd heard tales, but none of them had ever seemed more than fanciful fairy stories. He'd certainly never expected to meet one in the flesh. His father would likely beat him when he found out what his son had spent the day doing, but something about the strange old wizard had captured the boy's imagination almost instantly, and he found himself desperately wanting to be in this Saruman's presence. He wanted to please him, to impress him, to learn from him. He wanted to know... to know_ everything _...and this wizard just might be able to tell him of all that was in the wide world that he'd long dreamed of, but had forever been beyond his grasp._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The conversation stopped in its tracks as Frodo shuffled over to an empty chair at the table. The rest of the family were sat before plates with naught left but crumbs, still nursing cups of tea and in no apparent hurry to get on with the day. Lily Cotton smiled and stood, gathering another teacup and saucer from the cupboard. She set the filled cup before him, passing the sugar and milk. “There's buttered toast and a bit of ham or cheese if you like – or both. I'm afraid the apples are spent.”

Lily loaded up a plate without waiting for his answer, placing it before him with the obvious expectation that he would eat up without complaint. He returned her smile earnestly and took a bit of the toast. He appreciated anew the simple but nourishing food, as the Shire favored – not fancy, perhaps, but plenty of it for all.

Well, as had been, perhaps until recently. Sharkey's men had certainly interfered with planting, and had taken for themselves what they would, with no regard for the people they stole from. It hadn't escaped Frodo's notice that many of the hobbits who had joined him in removing Saruman and his lackeys from the Shire had tightened their belts. Frodo glanced back over his shoulder. If Saruman and his wicked Southerners had fattened themselves on the fruits of the Shire, the wizard had not seen fit to share with all of his servants.

Lily Cotton cleared her throat somewhat nervously across the table as she turned her teacup in her hands, staring down into the tea. “I've got a pot of porridge kept warm over the fire for your, ah... friend... should he wake soon. I know you promised to feed him, but you'll need to be careful about him until he's accustomed to food again, I've seen that the stomach sort of shrinks after being deprived for too long...”

Frodo turned back to his hostess. She seemed embarrassed although he was not certain why. “That is very kind of you.”

“What is, Mister Frodo?” Sam yawned in the door from the kitchen that led back into the rest of the smial.

“Good morning, Sam! Our generous hostess has prepared breakfast for us all.”

Sam smiled and thanked Lily Cotton before seating himself beside Rosie, blushing slightly as she rose to fetch him a cup and plate before her mother could.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Grìma sat stiffly at the end of the table, salivating at the scent of the rich food set before him. He'd never seen so much food all together at one time, not even at the solstice. There was a joint of roast chicken in front of him, fresh green peas, soft white bread and thick yellow butter, roasted carrots.... they'd even dropped a mug of ale in front of him, watered down but nonetheless. He stared wide-eyed at the feast before him, transfixed. He was quite removed from the King and his closest advisers, and the wizard seemed to have forgotten about him for the moment._

_He was at the far end of the bench, seated beside a young man, the son of some noble, who seemed barely out of boyhood himself. The man had looked him up and down appraisingly earlier, and had been on the cusp of some comment or question when the servants had distracted him with the arrival of food._

_Grìma flinched when the young man slapped him on the shoulder after taking a bite. “Well... eat up, boy, you look like you could use it. You came in with Master Saruman, did you not?”_

_Grìma nodded silently, unable to quite collect himself. He'd ridden into the city the day before and had been sent off by his father that morning, but it felt like he'd accidentally stumbled into someone else's life. He managed to pick up the chicken leg and after another moment's hesitation, tore into it with abandon._

“ _Did you come with him from Isengard, then? I suppose you grew up in some distant Northern land?”_

_Grìma chewed perhaps a bit too quickly and had to wash down the overlarge mouthful with the watery ale before he could reply. “Woodhurst.”_

_His companion paused, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at Grìma. “Ah. I see.”_

_Grìma finished the rest of his supper without further conversation._

 

 

* * *

 

 

After he'd cleaned his own plate, Frodo took it upon himself to take a bowl of the porridge to Wormtongue himself. The Cottons were kind folk, and generous, but their fear of his strange guest was understandable and he did not want to burden them more than what was necessary for him to keep to his own promises.

Sam lingered in the doorway behind as Frodo seated himself on the floor beside the sleeping man, setting the bowl down at arms length. He took hold of a bony shoulder and gave the man a light shake. “Wormtongue... Come on now, time to wake up.”

Wormtongue flinched but his eyes did not open. Frodo gave him a slightly harder shake. “Wormtongue... oh bother, what was your real name again? I know Merry told me at least once.”

“It's Grìma, I believe, Mister Frodo.”

Frodo glanced at Sam where he leaned against the door. “Thank you, Sam.” He turned back to Grìma, who seemed to be trapped in some sort of dream, if the twitching of the man's fingers and odd little noises indicated anything. “I almost hate to wake him, but he needs food and drink, or else I'd guess he will not last much longer.”

Frodo heard Sam snuffle and sigh at his perch in the doorway. “I hate to say it Mister Frodo, but it just might be more merciful like to just let him go. From what Merry says, he was a pretty miserable wretch even before Saruman started beating him.”

Frodo shook his head, ignoring Sam's proffered opinion. He could understand his friend's position, but even after the disastrous end of Gollum, he did not agree.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You want the brat? What the hell for?”_

_Grìma stood silently a few steps behind the wizard, trying to remain beneath notice, lest he break the spell that Saruman seemed to be slowly weaving over on his father._

“ _I can provide him with an education, with skills he could never gain in your village. In return I ask that he would remain in Isengard. I would allow him to return home for a time, each year, at the solstice.”_

 _His father had never hesitated to express his perennial disappointment and disgust in Grìma, and not just in words. Grìma could not imagine him allowing_ this _, though. As much as Gálmód had found Grìma permanently sub par, he had no other son, indeed no other child of any sort. Gálmód long stared into the eyes of Saruman, his face going, for a moment, slack and blank. After a moment, he blinked several times, shaking his head. He glanced at his son for only a brief moment. “I have no means to pay for an apprenticeship--”_

_Saruman lifted a hand, silencing Gálmód's protest. “It is not necessary. I will see to it that the boy is provided for while he is under my tutelage. He will serve me at other times, in payment. Is this arrangement agreeable?”_

_Gálmód nodded slowly, then departed without another word. Grìma watched his back receding down the street, wondering why he should not feel something more than the simple relief flooding through him._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grìma had not always been a Worm, or even a Wormtongue. This was a simple truth that he himself did not always remember well – especially not now. Everything had gone from bad to worse in recent years. Why had he done it? Why had he betrayed Rohan? He could no longer recall. There was pain, and hunger, and humiliation, and at times they blotted out all else. The present and past melted together into one hot slag that burned him at every turn like the forges beneath Isengard. The stripes his father Gálmód had cut into his back as a boy were frequently returned there by the wizard, or else one of his other servants, and yet he had not been able to leave his hated master.

Sometimes Grìma remembered that Saruman had not always been cruel and ached for a past that had become like a distant, foreign country.

No, he could not go back to where he'd come from. He would never set foot in Rohan again, and Isengard was a benighted ruin. He'd refused a hand outstretched in mercy, many months ago, he remembered that much, though the details were now lost in mist. Why had he done it? Why had he done any of it? At times a fair face rose in his mind's eye, a maiden with hair like gold and an expression that would have cut him in twain if a glance were a sword. Had he ever truly believed that such a woman could have loved him? The wizard had promised him that she would be his, if only he continued to serve him in all ways, and for some foolish reason that now escaped Grìma completely, he'd believed Saruman's lies. Now free of the strange fevered thrall that Saruman had held over him, what little he still grasped of his own life felt a sad jest.

He still heard the wizard's voice, even now, tugging at his mind like stout ropes, and dark shadows pursued him still, if only in dreams.

 

* * *

 

“ _There Beren came from mou... mount...”_

_Grìma squinted at the page, trying to make the letters come together properly. He was getting a headache, but tried to ignore it. Saruman paced slowly behind him, a scroll of some sort in his own hands as he read to himself, while Grìma struggled._

“ _Mountains, Grima. Keep going.”_

“ _Mountains cold, and lost he wan... wandered under leaves, and where the elven river rolled...”_

 

* * *

 

Frodo stumbled backwards as Grìma woke suddenly. The man rolled to sit awkwardly, struggling to balance. Frodo retrieved the bowl and cup behind him, removing them from danger of being upended and waited for Grìma to become more aware of his surroundings. Grìma sat more upright, glancing about the room for several moments before he seemed to realize he was not alone. He looked at Frodo and Sam in turn, saying nothing.

Frodo took a step forward, holding out the porridge and water. “I told you yesterday you would have food.”

Grìma hesitated, his eyes darting between the two hobbits, but after some sort of calculation, he reached out and took the bowl. He swallowed several spoonfuls without pause, unable to contain himself, then had to stop as his stomach threatened rebellion.

Frodo handed him the cup of water, then. “You haven't eaten in a long time, that much is obvious. You need to take it slowly. There's plenty more, there's no need to rush.”

Grìma took the water and sipped at it. Frodo waited for some sort of response, some sort of acknowledgment, but nothing seemed forthcoming.

“There is much work to be done, but I will return this afternoon. You will be safe here.”

 

* * *

 

_Grìma's lessons began with reading and with writing, which he mastered in mere weeks, and proceeded apace with language, history, and lore._

“ _I will have another task for you outside of these walls, once you have learned enough. I think you will find it suitable to your particular skills...”_

_Grìma did not want to leave Isengard, but said nothing, and studied as he was told. There was much in the wide world, and he wanted to know all of it. The libraries in Isengard seemed to have everything in them, although Saruman had told him they did not. The shelves were full of so much, though, that Grìma could not imagine anything was left out._

_Master Saruman was scant with praise but it did come, from time to time, and Grìma felt he would do anything for those brief moments – a nod, the bare hint of a softening expression, a light touch at the shoulder._

_Otherwise, he spent his time doing what he was told. It was no great burden to him, he was accustomed to being ordered about by his father after all, and the wizard, at least, did not seem inclined to beat him about the head at every mistake. Fetching and carrying things, delivering messages, cleaning up – these things were simple tasks, beneath the great wizard of course, but suitable enough for a low born half-breed._

_He would be allowed to go home over midwinter, and Grìma, ever obedient to his tutor, would go, but he would only be counting the days until he could return._

 

* * *

 

If the Cottons had not been terribly happy about Grìma to begin with, they were even less so when Frodo told them he had errands to run, and that Grìma did not have the strength to go with him, and thus would have to remain behind.

There had been little other choice, really. The ride to Michel Delving was not far, all told, but the errand he, Sam, Merry, and Pippin had gone on could not have waited. The prisoners still languishing in the lockholes needed to be released, and if what they discovered there of the state of Fatty Boldger and Will Whitfoot was any indication, Saruman had not fed his prisoners any better than he'd fed his servant.

Frodo felt pity even for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who had wept bitterly at the news of her son's death. He had not told her precisely who had been tasked with his murder, but chose to lay the blame at the feet of Saruman, to whom he felt the greater share belonged in any case.

Lobelia would no doubt hear in time just who Frodo had holed up at the Cottons' smial, and he would deal with her wrath when that day came, but there was too much work ahead at the moment to spare the time fearing it.

 

* * *

 

_Saruman took the object from his pupil and held it up to the sunlight. “He gave it to you willingly; you did not steal it?”_

“ _Yes, master, he placed it in my hands, as you instructed me to have him do.”_

“ _And you used used only your voice to convince him, no exchange, nor bribe?”_

“ _Yes, master.”_

_Saruman smiled as he turned the trinket over in his long fingers, thumbing open the locket to reveal the painted portraits of a stranger's parents. His apparent pleasure did not last as he turned his eye back to his pupil. “Why, you seem unsettled... whatever is the matter, child?”_

_Grìma gripped at his tunic with twitching fingers. “It just... seems wrong.”_

_Saruman sighed like a long-suffering parent dealing patiently as he may with a dull-minded child. “I will return the pendant to him in the morning, as I promised I would. This was merely an exercise, Grìma, a test to prove if you've learned well enough. No harm shall be done...” Saruman opened a drawer in his desk and allowed the pendant to slide into it, the chain slithering through his fingers before he shut it away._

“ _I shall return you to your King soon, Grìma. The world is growing perilous in these late days, and sometimes things must be... steered, as it were, toward better ends. I do not have the time to forever be riding back and forth to Edoras and you will advise him in my stead.” Saruman raised one eyebrow at his anxious pupil. “Do you fear this task, child? You have learned much in six years, more than most of your kind might. Do not concern yourself with the mood of the court. You will be there with_ my _authority, after all. Still, my dear one, will have your work cut out for you, so I suggest you keep your mind on your studies.”_

 

* * *

 

Rosie Cotton poured another pot full of boiling water into the tub she'd dragged into a spare bedroom. The family waited until Saturday night to bathe, but she'd had all she could take of the man's reek and was determined that he should scrub up before the day had ended, and if drawing multiple buckets of water from the well and heating it over the stove was the price to pay for being able to breathe through her nose, she'd gladly pay it. Of course it remained to be seen if she could actually coax the man into said bath but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

Her father had left a few hours after Mister Frodo and Sam, and her mother was busy taking a few loaves of bread to a neighbor down the lane whose children had had too little to eat of late, and would no doubt spend time gossiping and possibly visit her brothers and their wives and children before she made her way home.

She'd been given strict orders to run next door screaming if their guest tried anything untoward, but thus far the strange man had done little but sit on the floor staring away at nothing. He'd finished the entire pot of congealing porridge over the course of a few hours, as she handed him one bowl after another, and had crept outside only once for a few minutes, presumably to take care of nature's business (something she felt no need to inquire about, but was silently grateful that he had enough awareness to do such on his own – she'd briefly feared he was so dazed that he might soil himself in the middle of their sitting room floor).

“I know it's not quite big enough for you to really stretch out in, but it'll do well enough, Mister Grìma.”

 

* * *

 

_Grìma was, for the second time in his life, standing inside Meduseld, feeling smaller and smaller with every step he took into the grand hall. He was dusty and sweaty and tired from the road, and carrying two bags – one small one with a change of clothes and a few personal items, and another larger one slung across his back and cram full of scrolls and books and which felt like it would break his neck if he could not set it down soon._

_Rohirrim were everywhere – strong, tall men with straight noses and blond hair, dressed in browns and greens, deep reds and gold. The servant who had led him inside took him now before the throne, where sat King Theoden, and Grìma briefly feared he might faint._

_The King laughed when Grìma stumbled, but not cruelly. Theoden stood from the great carved throne, stepping down to grasp Grìma's shoulders like a kind uncle before stepping back again. “Your master sent word that a lore-master would be provided, but I had no idea he'd be so young! You must be clever indeed for a wizard to have such confidence in setting a beardless youth as adviser before a king.”_

_Grìma's tongue felt too large and thick in his mouth to speak but he managed to bow, nearly losing his balance again as his overloaded satchel shifted. The King smiled with good humor as he caught Grìma's shoulder again and gestured to a nearby servant._

“ _Follow Ælfric there, he will show you to your rooms. I imagine you will want to set that bag down before you break your neck. I shall see you at supper tonight, there is something I want to discuss...”_

 

* * *

 

Frodo and Sam returned to the Cottons' smial mid-afternoon, as they had planned. Frodo pushed through the door and stopped short, barely noticing when Sam walked straight into his back. Merry and Pippin protested at the back of the line, but Frodo was transfixed by the sight in front of him and could not yet move.

He'd somehow interrupted Rosie Cotton shoving a rather dazed looking Grìma toward the kitchen. She was barely half his height, and, despite his emaciation, he was still heavier than she was. Hobbit determination was nothing to be sneezed at, but the overall impression was of a fox trying to push over a tree.

Once she noticed their arrival, though, she paused in her manhandling and all but dropped Grìma back onto the rug as though she were letting down a sack of flour. “Oh good, you've returned! I've drawn up a bath for this ungrateful thing but he refuses to budge, maybe you two can do something about it. I've just _had_ it with the smell, it's like living in a pigs' wallow!”

 

* * *

 

_The whispering started almost immediately. He had not even had time to unpack or learn his way around Meduseld before he noticed servants, soldiers and nobles alike staring after him. He'd come upon groups who would suddenly cease their conversation as soon as they saw him, and more than once he'd heard his name spoken before they noticed his arrival._

_He tried to ignore it. He'd long been called half-breed and worse, after all, and while he'd grown unaccustomed to it in his years at Isengard, it should have been no surprise that his return to land of his birth would see the return of his countrymen's ill will._

_Now, though, added to the comments about his heritage were the comments on his youth and the bloody gall of some stripling of nineteen years having the ear of the king. Had he been a full-blooded man of Rohan, it might have been less of a shock, perhaps._

_As time passed, the whispering became less discreet, and the insults were no longer veiled. Much of the court was growing to hate him outright. Guards would not-quite-accidentally cuff him with a shoulder as they walked past; a nobleman might just happen to stretch a leg out as Grìma walked past, particularly if his arms were loaded down with books._

_The King, for his part, was kind enough, but waved it all off with a laugh. “ Grìma, my boy, pay no heed to gossip. They mean no real harm, I'm sure.”_

_Grìma though was not sure at all. He wanted to ask the king, tell them to stop. Make them stop. You are their King, they would have to listen to you. He could not bring himself to make such a forward request, he mustn't be seen to be inadequate, incompetent, thin-skinned... And so Grìma could only plead with his eyes, but the King took no notice._

 

* * *

 

 _What do these little creatures want from me?_ He tries to focus on what they are saying but he can barely see them half the time. Saruman's voice, his presence, the ever-sneering face, overlays the world around him. He cannot see. He cannot hear.

The young one tugs at him, gently at first, but more insistently. She wants him to go somewhere. Did Saruman send her to fetch him? Most of them seem to hate his master almost as much as he himself does, but some of them fear the wizard enough to serve him regardless. He understands that fear and does not blame them but he does not want to return to his master. Disobedience will result in punishment but he cannot bring himself to move even knowing what awaits if he does not.

He cannot now bring himself to push the little creature away, though. They are small, maybe fragile. The other one died so easily, barely a last exhalation as he slept, now never to awaken.

The Worm had not buried him, but neither had he eaten him as his master had accused. _“Kill him,”_ Saruman had ordered, _“or I shall kill you.”_ He'd begged for some morsel of food in return for this task, but Saruman had not shown this mercy. _“If you are so hungry, Worm, then complete this task and there is your supper!”_ The wizard's laughter had shot ice through the Worm's bones.

In the end, the Worm had left the small body under the bent roots of a tree and knew not what its fate had been.

 

* * *

 

_Grima had stumbled twice, now, when she had glanced at him directly, a wry smile, then laughter as he bent to retrieve what he'd dropped. He could feel heat creeping into his face any time she looked his way. He tried to ignore her, to get on with his work._

_The king's niece was younger than he was, by perhaps five or six years, but had already grown into a graceful, if fiery young woman and Grìma was finding her very, very hard to ignore._

_Everyone knew of Eowyn, of course. Wild, willful Eowyn, who would amuse herself riding breakneck through the city, bareback on unbroken colts, and out through the gates onto the open plains beyond. She would spar with her brother and cousin with a wooden training sword at times, loose hair whipping around her face in the wind._

_He started taking a different route through Meduseld as he moved between the library, the war room, the throne room, and various other destinations. He'd taken to skirting through the servants' corridors to avoid her as much as he could, despite the annoyance of the servants themselves. He wasn't stupid – she might find his own utter lack of grace amusing, had even once remarked , laughing, that he was like a new born foal on his wobbling, thin legs, but she would never deign to give her favor to some upstart, half-breed wizard's pupil._

_Still, she at least did not call him an upstart, half-breed wizard's pupil. Not to his face, anyway. Her brother and cousin were often less kind._

 

* * *

 

Frodo blinked and moved through the door, allowing his companions to enter behind him.

Pippin gave an exaggerated sniff. “Well, she's got a point, our Rosie Cotton does. Think we can get him into a tub, Merry?”

“Shouldn't be too difficult, I think. Barely much more than a scarecrow, these days.” Merry cracked his knuckles, eyeing up their subject.

Frodo held up a hand, forestalling their plotting. “Perhaps we should try to do this kindly, before we resort to dragging him about?” It had been scarcely a day since he'd seen Saruman pulling his servant up by the collar and he did not feel the need to emulate such behavior.

“The water will start to go cold if you don't hurry up,” Rosie interjected. “Whatever you do, don't wait too long, as I don't care for having to heat all that water up again, and while I'd like him clean, skinny as he is, I don't think he'd fancy a dunk in cold water.”

“I'll do what I can, Miss Rosie. Why don't you and the boys fix something to eat? I'll see about getting our guest here to his bath.”

 

* * *

 

_His Master had changed, but Grìma was at a loss to quite put his finger on it. Something in his eyes had darkened, Grìma thought, but it wasn't really an explanation. He'd served Saruman for the majority of his life at this point, and despite spending more of his time in Meduseld than Isengard for many years now, he still knew the wizard better, perhaps, than any other mortal. And all of his instincts were telling him to be quiet, to be silent, to not draw undue attention._

_Part of him desperately wanted to dash back to his horse and flee, never to return, but he pushed the impulse down as hard as he could. Where would he go to? His position in the court of Theoden existed because of Saruman, and without Saruman, Grìma was nothing and nobody._

_Grìma had received written instructions for years, returning to Isengard only twice or thrice a year, but Saruman had taken to summoning him more frequently. His instructions were often unsettling to Grìma as well. More and more often, the wizard had him exerting that particular pressure, through use of his voice, as he'd been taught._

“ _It is for the best, Grìma. There are things in motion you do not know of, but you must do as you are told.”_

_There had been a time when Grìma had lived for those subtle approving expressions, the soothing voice that wrapped itself around his mind, that let him know that, yes, his master is pleased, this time._

_Why did he suddenly feel as though he were being eyed by something that intended to devour him?_

 

* * *

 

Frodo seated himself beside Grìma after his friends retreated to the larder, trying to gain the man's attention. That blank stare of Grìma's was a mite unsettling, to say the least. Frodo wasn't unsympathetic – he remembered too vividly the Eye which had dominated his mind as he'd crossed Mordor. Whatever hold Saruman had kept over his servant, it clearly had not entirely dissipated with Saruman's death. Frodo absentmindedly rubbed at the old wound in his shoulder where the Nazgul had stabbed him on Weathertop. His friends were not unkind people but there were some things they did not – _could not_ – understand. Things he was indeed glad they would never understand.

“I wish Gandalf were here. He'd know how to help you. Or Lord Elrond, or Strider. I am not truly one of the Wise, I'm afraid.”

Grìma blinked and his hands twitched slightly where they rested on his legs.

Frodo reached out and took one of the man's hands into his own, to see if perhaps it would draw him out of his reverie. It was thin, like the rest of him, but even when Grìma was in full health, Frodo thought they would still be so – long fingers, accustomed to handling quill and ink and parchment, not swords or even a horse's reigns, though undoubtedly the Rohirric man knew how to ride, as they all did. Much like his own, before the quest, ever suited more to study than battle.

“Do you miss Rohan? I'm afraid I saw only a little of it... Merry and Pippin could say more.”

Grìma squeezed at his fingers, briefly, then pulled his hand back. He did not look at Frodo but seemed less absent, so Frodo took it as a hopeful sign. “Come, Rosie has drawn up a nice hot bath for you. A soak will do you good, I think.”

Frodo took Grìma's hand again and pulled him much more gently than Rosie had been doing earlier, and by some small miracle, the man stood and allowed himself to be led. The other hobbits stopped their conversation and watched as Frodo led him through the kitchen and down the hallway beyond.

“Well then,” said Rosie. “I don't know if I should feel slighted or relieved.” Sam scowled at first, but smiled when Rosie began laughing.

 

* * *

 

_Grìma hated. Grìma hated all of them. The king who would do nothing to stop his subjects from tormenting his adviser. His so-called countrymen who sneered at him for his dark features, his mixed blood, who shouted insults at the uppity young half Dunlendish scholar who could not handle a sword worth a damn and was, at best, merely a competent horseman. They were all laughing at him, day after day._

_Well, most of them. The king did not laugh, not any longer. Grìma had spent years agonizing over what he was doing, over the orders his master gave him. Theoden was no longer the vital, active king he had been. Make him doubt, Saruman had told him. Make him come to you for every decision._

_When his voice proved to be less expedient than Saruman had hoped, he'd been packed off back to Meduseld with a pouch of herbs that smelled foul, although the wizard had assured him it would have neither taste nor scent when mixed in minute amounts into food. “I trust you can find your way to the kitchens.”_

_Saruman's patience was very thin lately, and he would brook no more questioning. Rarely, he would offer some assurance, but only rarely. There is a goal in this, my pupil, he would say. Indeed there is. You shall share in the rewards. You shall have the respect you desire, when it all comes to fruition. You shall have everything you desire, if only you trust and obey._

_And if you do not, I shall no longer have any use for you._

 

* * *

 

Frodo pulled Grìma into the spare room before releasing his grip on the man's hand. He dragged his fingertips through the water, checking that it had not gone too cold. It was no longer steaming but was still more than warm enough to be comfortable. He glanced back at Grìma who seemed to be busy staring at his own reflection in the water.

His face was thin under normal circumstances, Frodo surmised, but it was positively gaunt at the moment, and still stained with blood and dirt from the previous day. The man's hair was greasy and matted against his skull and the overall impression was ghoulish at best.

It would take more than a bath to undo most of the damage, but it would be a start. And make him easier for others to be around, to say the least.

Frodo stood back to give him room, waiting to see if he would take the initiative, so to speak. Perhaps he was shy of being seen? “I'll go see where Rosie keeps the soap and the towels if you'd like to undress and get in.”

Frodo waited another heartbeat, then backed out of the room, partially closing the door but leaving enough of a gap to hear any sounds of distress. He stood in the hallway for a few moments, holding his breath. To his relief, he heard Grìma shifting on the other side of the door, and the eventual splashing of water.

Rosie and her mother wouldn't be terribly happy if he sloshed half the water onto the floor, but Frodo thought he'd take his victories where he could.

 

* * *

 

_Grìma hated. Grìma hated himself, above all. His life had become a litany of horrors in recent years, and he hated himself, hated how easy it had all been, in the end._

_He ordered grain caravans diverted to areas where raiders and orcs would waylay them, he arranged the plundering of Rohan's scarce ore to be diverted to Isengard. He was not privvy to all of Saruman's plans, nor was he allowed to see the source of the smoke rising from beneath the ring surrounding his master's tower, but he knew how to be obedient._

_More significantly, for the first time in his life, he wielded real power, and it frightened him how easily he became half-drunk on the sensation. In this, Saruman had not been entirely accurate – he did not have the love and respect of his countrymen. But he had their fear, now, and that tasted almost as sweet._

_The King was a bent old man and his court shuffled about Meduseld, speaking only in hushed whispers when Grìma was nearby._

_Oh, they still talked about him when they thought he couldn't hear. He knew what they called him now – the Wormtongue – but they did not dare defy him openly. No longer the court's figure of fun, was Grìma, now called the Wormtongue._

_The serpent had grown up, and discovered that he had teeth._

 

* * *

 

“Did you get him in, then?”

Frodo gave Pippin half a smile and nodded. “Yes, I'm just looking for a bit of soap for him now. He'll need it.”

Rosie stood up from her seat at the table, rushing past Frodo to the hallway. “Oh, of course, I knew I forgot something.”

Following her, Frodo stood while she rifled through a linen closet, shoving a washcloth and several towels into his arms. “I still have a bit of a bar of soap left by the washbasin in my room, it's been a little hard to come by with the recent troubles I'm afraid. But I'll gladly sacrifice it if it gets that stink off of our guest.”

Supplies retrieved, he headed back down the hallway. He doubted his taciturn charge would respond, but he rapped on the doorframe anyway, waiting for any potential protest. No response forthcoming, he pushed his way in.

Grìma barely had room to sit in a tub that had been made with hobbits in mind, but he'd managed to fold himself in. His back was to the door, and Frodo could not help but cringe at the sight of it. Frodo could have counted every single bone of the man's spine if he'd cared to number them, and the pale, taut skin was crossed with scars and wounds of varying age.

Wormtongue had been no saint, certainly, and held in some partial measure the blame for the troubles that had beset Rohan before Gandalf's arrival, and mischief that had beset the Shire, but Frodo could not bring himself to judge Grìma worthy of the cruelty that Saruman had wrought upon him.

Shaking his head, Frodo dropped the stack of towels on the spare bed nearby and handed the washcloth and chip of soap to Grìma, then left the man to wash in peace.

 

* * *

 

_Grìma lay on the floor where he'd landed, his jaw working like a beached fish in shock. His cheek stung from the back-handed slap, a livid line seeping drops of blood where Saruman's ring had cut into his flesh._

_Never before had his master struck him._

“ _There is no time for your dithering, Wormtongue. Oh yes, I know what they call you. Now get up!”_

_Grìma obediently stood, keeping his eyes trained on the dark stone of Isengard's floors._

_Saruman paused, sighing. “I should not have struck you, Grìma, but you must understand the urgency of the situation. If you cannot find some means of quelling Theoden's kin, they will have to be removed.”_

_Grìma shuddered where he stood, the image of the King's niece rising in his mind's eye. “No...”_

“ _No? No?”_

_Grìma's arms rushed over his face, to fend off a blow he was certain was coming, but which did not arrive. “I mean, yes, Master, of course.”_

“ _You are distracted of late, Grìma. You cannot afford to be. What is wasting your attention, then?”_

 

* * *

 

It was nearly suppertime when Grìma finally re-emerged. Frodo had checked on him from time to time, to make sure he had not drowned himself if nothing else, but had otherwise left him to his own devices. His reappearance had brought before the assembled hobbits another problem to which a solution would need to be found.

“Er, uh... wouldn't you rather get dressed first, Mister Wormtongue?” Merry's bemusement was interrupted by Pippin's sudden bark of laughter, which was soon joined by Rosie's mirth, stifled by a hand over her mouth and a slight blush.

Sam merely looked from face to face about the room, finally meeting Frodo's gaze across the table. _Gollum_ , he mouthed silently. Frodo frowned, unable to find the same humor in the situation that his friends did.

On Grìma's part, the man looked askance at the laughing hobbits and shuffled past with greater speed, returning to sitting room and beyond the sight of his audience.

Frodo rubbed at his tired eyes as Rosie stood up to stir the pot bubbling over the fire that was to be their supper. Her parents would return soon, undoubtedly, and Frodo was unsure how they would react to Grìma's current state of undress. Sam shrugged at him across the table. “I don't think I'd want to put those nasty rags back on after I'd finally gotten washed off either, all told.”

“No, I don't think I would either, Sam. Rosie, I don't suppose there's something...?”

Rosie tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot to knock off any remaining drops of broth and set the spoon on a dish on the counter. “Nothing that would fit one of his sort, no. It _is_ a bit of a problem, I suppose. Dianthus next door is a pretty good seamstress, but spare cloth is hard to get at the moment. I suppose we could repurpose some old linens but you'll have to ask Mama about that.”

 

* * *

 

_Grìma felt like his mind was on fire. He'd often suspected that Saruman could read minds, and now he was sure of it. The wizard's hand grasped him by the back of the neck firmly, nearly lifting him off his feet, his eyes boring into Grìma's own as though he could burn straight through to the other side of his servant's skull._

“ _A woman, is it? So the Wormtongue is a man after all, I suppose. Still, you disappoint me.” Saruman dropped Grìma and withdrew without ceremony._

“ _No, Master. It is... nothing, I assure you. Nothing. I will complete the task, just give me more time. I will not allow myself to be diverted again.”_

_Saruman paced across the floor of his study for a moment, coming to rest near the narrow window that looked out over the ring and into the forest beyond, although the view was becoming ever more obscured with smoke of late._

_It began lowly, a rumble more felt than heard, but after a few moments, Saruman's laugh grew in volume until it filled the room. “You ugly thing! Do you even for a moment believe a King's niece could love you?”_

_Grìma felt his face heating and shook his head vehemently. “No, Master, I would never--”_

“ _You want her, Wormtongue. Shall I give her to you, then? Will that be sufficient motivation to make you carry out your duty with the necessary haste?”_

_Saruman laughed again and Grìma felt vaguely ill. “Well? What is your answer – do you want Eowyn, then, for a wife? I will see that she is delivered to you, once Rohan is mine, what say you to that?”_

_Grìma could say nothing, feeling suddenly like a dark child again, surrounded by fair men of high birth – small, and unworthy. Saruman stared again into his soul and Grìma was even less than a child, now a worm under the eye of some massive bird._

“ _She would not love you. I could make it as though she believed she did. Would you like that, Wormtongue? A pretty thing to amuse you.”_

“ _Please... No, master.”_

_Saruman was suddenly across the room, standing over Grìma, leering down at him with some mixture of amusement and disgust. “No, Grìma, she could never come to love you in truth – but I will give her to you regardless. I will give her to you and she shall hate you all the days of your life. That shall be your just reward.”_

“ _No!” Grìma cringed and sank back against the wall, sliding downward as if pulled by some invisible hand. He hadn't meant to speak his protest aloud, but it had slipped free._

“ _So you do not want her, then? Shall I give her to an orc instead? Now there is a thought – a shield-maiden of Rohan, mother of Uruk-Hai. They would be strong indeed.”_

_Grìma cursed himself as treacherous tears escaped. “Please, Master, I will have her then, if that is the choice. I will have her...”_

“ _Good.” Saruman kicked his servant where he crouched in the corner. “Good. Now get up and get out of my sight – you have your instructions. Do not return until you have completed your task.”_

 

* * *

 

Grìma, once called Wormtongue, or even just Worm, lay on his back in the long grass with his eyes closed. The sound of the wind in the trees lulled him in and out of sleep, and somewhere at a distance, children were shouting and laughing. For the first time since he was a young child himself, the sunlight felt welcome on his face. The warmth of the Shire seeped into his aching bones, and he gladly forgot, for a moment, every name he'd ever been given.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. A Horse With No Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gríma is good at digging these days. Too good, perhaps.

“He's not much of a conversationalist, Mister Frodo, but I'll admit he's coming in useful these days.”

Frodo smiled at Sam as he dropped another shovel full of dirt into the wheelbarrow to be hauled away. “True, he's not the tallest I've seen of the big folk, but his reach is higher than a hobbit's is, certainly. If we could just get him to speak more than two words at a time...”

“Maybe he can't anymore? Saruman beat him pretty often, I think, might've taken a bad blow to the head.”

“It's possible, Sam, but I think he's just... not ready yet, maybe.”

Sam shrugged and they both stood for a moment, leaning on their long-handled spades. Sam pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped the sweat out of his eyes. Autumn was wearing on, indeed the first of December was only a week away, but it was still getting warm enough in the afternoons that their efforts to restore Bagshot Row were feeling like real work. They watched Gríma for a moment as the man stood, holding up a portion of a round door frame at the entrance of a smial under restoration as two carpenters (on ladders, naturally), nailed them into place.

Gríma was still weak from months of starvation, despite Lily Cotton's admirable efforts at keeping his belly full over the last month, but he was nonetheless putting forth an effort, which gave Frodo some shred of hope as to his future. He still spoke mostly in monosyllables and only when prompted, and seemed half-dazed at times, but recently he'd at least begun taking directions without too many repetitions. Many of the residents of Hobbiton and Bywater still grumbled about his continued presence, but Frodo was determined to keep his promise – that the man should have food and shelter until he was strong enough to find his own path forward. At the time, he hadn't really thought about just how long that might take, but so be it, he thought.

Things were moving along, and faster than they'd anticipated. Bag End, like the rest of the row, was being repaired, but the damage had been extensive – it seemed that Saruman had taken things _personally_. So in all likelihood, Frodo, Sam, and even Gríma, would be spending Yule with the Cottons. Frodo wanted to repay them some way, despite their insistence that they expected nothing in return, that removing Sharkey from the Shire was payment enough for a lifetime, but nonetheless...

Sam, at least, seemed to be in quite a good mood lately, and Frodo was more or less just waiting for him to announce that he & Rosie were engaged, if Sam could ever get past his shyness. _You walked into Mordor, Sam, just_ ask _her_.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Gríma... are you happy here, in the Shire? Do you have any idea where you'd like to go next?”

Gríma shrugged, still staring into the fire. _Well, at least he responded somewhat,_ Frodo thought. Gríma had not yet relinquished his claim to the rug before the hearth in the Cottons' sitting room and Frodo thought it was odd that he insisted on sleeping there. The hobbit beds were too small, but Lily Cotton had offered more than once to set up a pallet of blankets in one of the empty bedrooms. They had plenty of space since the boys had married and left, after all.... but no, he returned to the smial each evening after working wherever he was sent, and stretched out before the fire, and would not be moved unless tempted with supper.

Frodo held out hope that Gríma might find some place for himself, eventually. So far, he'd done no further harm to the Shire.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Merry & Pippin had been kept quite busy of late, spending much of their time around the south farthing with their company of stout young hobbits. Most of the troublesome southerners who had come up with Sharkey had fled after the wizard's demise, but there are always a few who are too stubborn to take a hint.

At the moment, though, the two sat at the Cottons' kitchen table, their mail-shirts, shields, and swords discarded back in the sitting room, nursing mugs of ale. They were all quite glad to have said ale, after all – they'd thought at first that Sharkey's men had eaten everything, but great stores of food and drink and weed had been found in the tunnels of the quarry in Scary and in a few other boltholes about the Shire, and suddenly the coming Yule season seemed something to look forward to. It had turned cold with the beginning of December and that seemed to dampen the southerners' enthusiasm as well, giving Merry & Pippin an opportunity to unwind a bit.

Frodo and Sam were also leaning back in their chairs, enjoying the warmth of the kitchen and a late afternoon snack. Sam stared at the ceiling for a moment, chewing on a bit of crust. “We ought to write to the King, you know? Strider might could spare us a few Rangers, d'you think?”

“Maybe,” said Pippin, “but I like to think the Shire can take care of this problem on its own. We weren't here for most of it, but the lads and lasses need this, I think. Need to know they can stand on their own two feet, as it were. We've routed most of them, anyway, and I think the rest will get tired of it and go home soon. Or we'll just have to convince them. With _arrows_.”

Merry nodded in approval beside him. “We don't need the big folk looking after our affairs for us anymore. I know the Rangers were doing a lot we didn't really know of, but Sauron's gone and I think it's high time we protect our own borders. Hobbits aren't going to be bested by a few lousy bandits. I think they could have handled Sharkey if they'd just known it. I suppose we had to remind them, but that's done.”

Gríma hunched over where he was seated on the floor (the chairs being too small for one of the Big People, even one still as thin as Gríma). Leaning back to look at him, Frodo sighed. “He wasn't accusing you, Gríma. Although I suppose you needed a reminder too – that you don't have to follow some rotten wizard or anyone else who tells you to do horrible things. You'll remember from now on.”

Gríma said nothing.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Frodo could not have guessed what he'd find one afternoon upon returning from Buckland. He heard the commotion long before he saw it – a strident, angry voice interspersed with shouts from various others.

There was a circle of hobbits crowded around the goings-on near the partially reconstructed Bagshot Row, some shouting things like “Oh do stop now!” and “Don't you think you should wait until Mister Frodo gets back?” Others were laughing and giving suggestions of how to better proceed, or just a general opinion of “Get 'em, m'am!,” and Frodo hurried his pony on, coming to a rough stop just beside a sizeable crowd. A few of them noticed his approach and scuttled backward sheepishly, a couple of them picking up tools and trying to look busy, and the rest hopping off to find interest in, oh, literally anything else. _Is this what we've become_ , thought Frodo. Clearly not all of Saruman's damage to the Shire was done to trees and hobbit smials. _We need to move past this_. It may take more than a few weeks for some to let go of their anger, but in the meantime...

Sam caught up and dismounted from his pony as well and the both of them pushed their way through the remainder of the crowd. The more intent onlookers to this bit of pantomime had not noticed their arrival. It took a moment for Frodo to react to the absurdity before him.

“You villain!” screeched the small, hunched, and aged figure of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, “You _serpent_!”

She had gripped in both gnarled hands an umbrella that had also seen better days, and was currently using it with great gusto to beat Gríma over the back and head with it. Frodo doubted the very elderly hobbit still had the strength to do him real lasting harm, but it was certainly not for lack of effort. Gríma was curled over on himself on the ground like some kind of tortoise hiding in its shell, his arms covering the back of his head and neck, but otherwise offering no resistance to the repeated blows. Lobelia had managed to bloody his knuckles, although he did not seem otherwise greatly harmed. Still... “That's enough, I should think! Let him be, Lobelia.”

Lobelia turned, shocked, at his intrusion. She blinked, her mouth still twisted in rage and her eyes full of angry tears, looking Frodo up and down.

“Let us go somewhere and discuss this, Lobelia--”

Frodo had not expected the blow, and so utterly failed to duck the umbrella's swing before it connected with the side of his head, leaving his ear stinging (and ringing). So great was his surprise at the fervor of the blow that he probably would not have dodged the second, either, had Sam not reached out to grasp Lobelia gently but quite firmly by the arm. Frodo's gardener heaved a great sigh as Lobelia used her left hand to beat weakly at his chest, letting out a string of language Frodo would never have expected from the ever prim-and-proper woman, but she soon tired and sagged, her limited strength spent. Sam lifted an eyebrow in question at Frodo.

“Yes, let her go, Sam. I think she's made her point.”

Lobelia stood back and straightened her hat and clothing, putting the handle of the now-bent umbrella over her arm, glaring daggers at the both of them. “I would have expected better of _you_ , Frodo Baggins, than to give shelter to a wicked murderer like that... that _snake_ over there! He won't even tell me what he did with my Lotho! Is he deaf now? A mute? I don't believe it! He's just too wicked to even let me bury my son!”

By this point, Lobelia was sobbing and shaking and Frodo feared the old woman might faint. He took Lobelia gently by the elbow and she did not resist him as he led her away down the lane.

He glanced at Sam on his way past. “Get him back to the Cottons' smial. I'll catch up to you later.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Lobelia was still quite angry with him by the time he'd gotten her back to one of her Bracegirdle cousins' home, but at the very least he'd managed to placate her with a promise to find out what had been done with her son's body. It remained to be seen whether he'd be able to get that information, however. Gríma was taciturn under the best of circumstances, but after this, Frodo wondered if he'd be able to get the man to speak at all any time soon.

It was dark by the time he returned to the Cottons' smial, and he was grateful that Lily had kept a plate warm for him from supper, as he was quite famished. Gríma had taken his place before the fire and managed, somehow, to look even more morose than usual. Frodo decided to sit down and eat his meal and let some of the tension of his long, contentious afternoon arguing with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dissipate before attempting to deal with him.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Why do I get myself into these messes?,_ Gríma thought. His back ached and he shifted over, laying on his side stretched out before the fire.

He didn't mind the work, as such. He'd grown up in a farming community, after all, and while he had never before tunneled straight into a hillside, shoveling and picking through mud and stone, per se, he'd seen plenty of days of moving dirt around. The work wasn't any great burden. It was a distraction, at least – if his muscles burned and ached at the end of the day, at least he knew he was still alive.

Today, the pain was of a slightly different sort. He'd learned that the small folk were not so weak as they might look – they were, on average, perhaps three feet tall, but were no mere rats, whatever the orcs who'd served Saruman had called them. The bent old woman's blows had, quite surprisingly, stung a bit. His knuckles were scabbing over where she'd broken the skin as he'd held them over the back of his head and neck, and he suspected his shoulders were several interesting shades of bruise, but he couldn't muster up the will to care.

 _Why am I still here?_ He remembered coming with Saruman, and he remembered starving. He remembered Southerners with eyes harder than stone who had pledged themselves to the wizard. He remembered the wizard whose voice still wielded power, even when his staff was broken and he had little else left to him. Gríma had once known how to use his own voice in a similar fashion, although perhaps not to such great effect. It stuck in his throat these days, like a trapped animal. Sometimes when he tried to speak, he felt like something in his throat would burst. _Your words are poison_ , the shieldmaiden had told him. _Your words are poison_. And now he was choking.

He also remembered the feeling of pushing a dagger through the back of that sleeping hobbit, how easy it had been, how the still-hot blood had coated his hands as he carried it away in the dark, the deed done. They all must know what he is, by now. The wizard had told them what he'd done. _He made me do it. He_ made _me do it. He made me do every thing I ever did._

_Oh, but did he? You could have died instead. You could have let Saruman kill you for disobeying. You could have stayed in Rohan and gone to war and died there instead. You could have run away and died in the wilderness, where you would bring harm to no one. It would have been easier, better, for everyone involved._

Gríma pulled his knees up to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly. Too late for that now, whatever he might have done. These hobbits will tire of him, soon, he was certain of that. The old woman had known what he was, and had acted accordingly. He could not find fault with her. Yes, they would tire of him, and make him leave. Then where would he go?

Sometimes he dreamed of gently rolling plains, long grass swaying in wind, and the sound of hooves. He would walk across the endless plains of Rohan until he grew tired. He would lay down in the grass and the earth would lovingly swallow him whole.

Where would he go? Nowhere, probably.

  
  


* * *

  
  


After supper, Frodo nodded off. Sam roused him enough to send him to bed, and he'd gone to sleep with the matter of Lotho Sackville-Baggins still unresolved. Dawn, however, could be quite merciless, and arrived long before he was ready.

Breakfast came and went and Frodo needed to get on with the day. Lobelia had spent the afternoon before moving between sobbing and raging like a child on a swing. Despite the long history of enmity between her, her husband, and Bilbo (and, by extension, Frodo himself), he did feel pity for her. She was quite old now, but seemed worn even beyond her long years by the deprivations of Saruman's temporary reign over the Shire and the loss of Lotho.

Even thinking about Gríma made Frodo's head ache. _Why do I get myself into these messes?,_ he thought. _“I will take the ring!”_ had been foolish enough, if necessary, but apparently he had not quite yet learned his lesson about sticking his neck out, and now the half-feral Rohirric traitor he'd taken off the defeated wizard was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not. Smeagol crouched in the back of his mind, with that half fearful, half hopeful look that had sometimes graced the bent creature's face. Frodo alone had been the one to offer the man shelter. It might well have been a mistake, but it was too late now to take it back, if he wanted to keep any shred of honor. If other hobbits were growing less patient, however, he may soon not have much choice.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Gríma-”

The dark-haired hobbit with nine fingers was staring balefully down at him. _Frodo_ , Gríma thought. That was his name. Sam was the gardener. Merry & Pippin where the tall ones whom Gríma was quite certain did not like him very much, but they were somewhere else at the moment, and the gardener was already outdoors. Gríma had intended to follow him, to find some task to make the day pass as quickly as possible, but Frodo stood between him and the door.

Gríma scratched at a spot on his neck where some sort of lingering insect had bitten him the day before, when he'd been unloading another wheelbarrow full of excavated earth into a ditch near the river that ran south of Hobbiton. There had been cold nights, already, but some of the buzzing nuisances had not quite given in to the morning frosts, it seemed. Gríma remembered that the wizard had used his black powder to collapse the hobbits' homes in a fit of spite some months back. Gríma remembered the acrid smell of smoke, which did not much resemble wood or brush fire, but had a sulfurous tang that lingered in the nose long after the bang, like fireworks, only somehow more objectionable.

Frodo paced for a moment before him. _This is it,_ Gríma thought, _here is where he tells me it is time to leave._ Gríma stood, looking past the hobbit to the round door beyond.

Frodo didn't move to let him pass, but put a hand out, gripping at Gríma's forearm. “Gríma... I know you'd like to follow Sam up to Bagshot Row, and I am truly pleased at how much you have helped us these last two months, but today we must deal with another task. I know you said that Saruman made you kill Lotho, and he said much else besides.”

Gríma tensed, wanting to leave. _Just send me away from here. I can do nothing for your little Boss, he is gone,_ Gríma wanted to say, but could not get the words to leave his throat no matter how much he willed it.

“I am not angry, Gríma. But I must know what you did with him... I owe his mother an answer. I do not truly believe you ate him, whatever Saruman said, but whatever you did with the body, I would know of. Lobelia wants something to bury and I agree that she has a right to do so.”

Gríma opened his mouth, and managed a sort of creaking noise at the back of his throat, but whatever he might have said died before it reached his lips. His eyes stung and he pulled away from Frodo's grip, stumbling backwards.

Frodo did not pursue him but ran a four-fingered hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I knew this would not be easy.” He paced another tight circle, stopping again to look at Gríma. “You won't speak at all now, will you? I wonder if you even can...” The hobbit stood a moment longer, then pulled Gríma toward the door by his hand. “Just _show_ me then, if you cannot say.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Frodo should have guessed he would not be able to complete this task without being discovered. For weeks now, Gríma had only been seen at the Cottons' smial or outside Bagshot Row hauling about dirt or timber. That he was now being led by the hand like a child by Frodo Baggins was bound to attract attention. Gríma had been leading him back toward Michel Delving without argument... right up until they gained an audience. Now he was sitting against a tree and not budging.

“Frodo lad, I know you're a clever chap and you probably have your reasons... but really, is it necessary to keep this... man... here any longer? He's been fed and clothed and is quite clearly able to walk on his own without trouble. Perhaps you ought to send him on his way now?”

Dinodas Brandybuck was smoking from a short stemmed pipe, while he and his companions stared down at Gríma with a look of mild disgust. Frodo knew these hobbits – some of them quite well, some only in passing – but while some of them were impatient or a bit thick-headed, he'd never known any of them to be particularly cruel. Dinodas was, in fact, his uncle. He shook his head, wishing the problems of the war could be done away with more swiftly, including this one. Yule was not far away, and winter would set in soon. He could tell Gríma he must leave, and it would make his own life simpler, one less plate to spin among the many he had going at the moment.

Frodo shook his head, digging his proverbial heels in. “Not yet, uncle. The year is growing old and winter is coming. We will see where things stand come springtime. Besides, we can use every pair of hands we have right now. He's been helping up at Bagshot Row.”

Dinodas drew on his pipe and seemed dissatisfied but did not argue. He took a few steps back, but not all of his companions followed. Halfast Gamgee, one of Sam's cousins, in particular, did not budge. “Frodo, we all know he killed Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and was one of that Sharkey's lackeys, and probably did much evil that is not known. It's not the ways of hobbits to hang criminals, but at the very least, he ought to be shown to the border and invited not to return. How can you keep him around, like some great ruddy pet? He's still dangerous if you ask me - once a villain, always a villain!”

Gríma, during all of this, remained where he sat against a small tree. Halfast stepped even closer to him, leaning over him as much as his stature would allow, and grabbed the man's collar in his fist. “If you're too soft-hearted to do it yourself, we could take him out of the Shire for you!”

Frodo placed himself between the crowd of hobbits and Halfast where he stood holding onto Gríma, splitting the group. Part of his mind was screaming at him that he was in a prime position to be thoroughly trounced, but another part of him was saying _these are your kith and kin, they won't actually harm you_ , but he wasn't certain of anything anymore. “Let go of him, Halfast. This doesn't concern you. He is my responsibility and mine alone. We have an errand that you are impeding; now let us go on our way.”

Halfast stared down at Gríma, then stared back at Frodo, his mouth a tight line and his nostrils flaring like an angry bull's, and Frodo wondered, again, what had become of the Shire.

Thankfully, the impasse was broken when Merry and Pippin rode up on their ponies. “What's all this, then, Frodo?” Merry's hand was on the hilt of his sword, his eyes crossing the entire tense crowd. Dinodas and the others moved even further away from Frodo, Halfast, and Gríma, seeking to distance themselves in more ways than one.

Halfast's grip on Gríma's collar loosened and he dropped his gaze to the ground. “Nothing, it's... nothing.”

Pippin dismounted as well, pulling out his own pipe and lighting it. “What a jolly party, a pity we weren't invited, Merry. I'm sure these good hobbits were only helping Frodo here. Isn't that right, Halfast?”

Halfast nodded hesitantly. “I'll just... be on my way, then.” The rest of the gathered group began moving down the road toward Waymeet and Halfast hurried past Merry and Pippin to catch up to them.

“I keep telling myself the war's over,” mused Merry, “but sometimes I don't wonder if there's some that's still fighting it.”

Frodo sat down beside Gríma, leaning against the tree trunk himself. Merry and Pippin joined them, passing a bag of pipeweed down the line, which Gríma ignored, but Frodo gladly accepted. “I wouldn't be too harsh on them, Merry. We weren't here when Sharkey was doing his worst, and while I've a good idea of the hurts he's inflicted on the Shire, it's not the same as living it. I think the worst of it is those hobbits who served him, though. You can look at the southerners, the wicked men, and think – well it's not their home, they're just bandits who came to steal what wasn't theirs. But the hobbits who ran his errands? Some did so out of fear, certainly, but some of them had clearly enjoyed lording it over fellow hobbits and... _well_.” Frodo lit his own pipe and drew the fragrant smoke into his lungs, savoring the burn and letting it out through his nostrils like a dragon. “It'll take some time for folks to trust one another again, I'm afraid.”

“Time heals all wounds,” Pippin said, “at least that's what I've heard.”

Frodo rubbed at his shoulder. “Not all wounds, Pip, but I think it might do the Shire some good. We'll fix the ruined smials, and replant trees. It won't be the same, though, not for a long time. The trees will take fifty years at least, before they even begin to look as they once did...”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The sun was low in the sky and painting long orange streaks and dark shadows across the landscape by the time they rose. It was December and days were short, and they did not have much time to complete this task.

Frodo walked a few steps behind Gríma, flanked by Merry and Pippin, and Frodo found himself glad to have their company on this unpleasant errand. They were not waylaid again, as most hobbits were heading back indoors now, looking for their tea. They passed through Michel Delving and into a small wooded area beyond. The largest trees had all been cut down to feed Sharkey's fires, but the smaller ones had miraculously been spared. Gríma came to a halt so suddenly that Frodo nearly ran into his back. The oblique rays of the setting sun cast the trunks of the remaining trees in sharp contrast and Frodo had to squint to see what he was pointing at.

A medium sized oak tree still stood, perched on the side of a steep hill, and Gríma pointed at its roots. Frodo glanced back at Merry and Pippin and went to go see what was there.

It took a moment for him to find the bones. Grima had not eaten him, as Saruman had cruelly jested, but animals and birds and insects had stripped them bare of flesh quite thoroughly, and the shifting of soil had nearly buried them already. Frodo clasped one hand over his mouth, trying not to think too hard about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. He had not cared for the man, nor his mother. The Sackville-Bagginses had always been greedy and ambitious in Frodo's estimation, had tried to take Bag End (and the silverware) from Bilbo through unscrupulous means, and had considered themselves above others. He couldn't bring himself to feel any satisfaction at this sad fate, though.

Merry peered over Frodo's shoulder. “It's getting dark. We can come back tomorrow and gather them up. He's been out here for months, one more night isn't likely to make any difference, Frodo.”

“I suppose you're right. I'll let Lobelia know once we've arranged a coffin. She'll have something to bury, at least.”

The sun had dipped below the horizon now, and the twilight would fade quickly this time of year. Frodo looked up to find that Gríma had disappeared. “Pip, did you see where he went?”

“'Fraid not, Frodo. Must've slipped off between the trees. Well, he'll either find his way back to the Cottons' I imagine, or we'll never see him again. Either way...”

“It's already getting cold, now the sun's gone...”

Frodo turned back to Pippin and saw the flare of a match re-lighting his pipe. Pippin huffed a half-chuckle, although Frodo wasn't sure what he found humor in. Pippin blew a few smoke rings, which a chill wind tore into streaks almost immediately. “He can take care of himself, I'd imagine. He might've gone a bit funny, but he's no child. Tough as old boots to have lasted this long, I'd guess. He'll turn up, sooner or later – a bad penny, that one.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gríma was somewhat beginning to regret this. For one thing, it was cold, and the wind refused to let up. It was a clear night with no moon and few clouds, and the stars stood out vividly in the sky. The lack of clouds also meant that the temperature had dropped precipitously after sunset. He could follow the road back. It was after midnight but it was possible that someone might hear him if he knocked on the door. But he could not go back to them, not after what he'd showed them today.

_Saruman told me to do it. He_ made _me do it._

There is always a choice, though. Even death is a choice. _He taught me to read. He taught me to write. He taught me about herbs, about animals, about the world, and some things beyond the world._ _He taught me the names of the stars._ Had it always just been the means to an end? Had Saruman ever cared about him at all? He'd spent his youth sitting before the man's hearth, eating his food, occupying his time. The wizard had never been what anyone would describe as warm, but he'd certainly been kinder than most others had. For a time, anyway. Until everything changed.

Gríma dug into the dirt with his hands. They were nearly always dirty now, anyway, and there was no point in worrying about it. His fingernails were worn and chipped, and his cuticles stained not with ink but with earth. He'd found another tree with roots thrusting up like bent knees, like the one he'd laid the hobbit he'd killed underneath. If he dug enough, perhaps he could bury himself, could live there like the rest of the worms. He was getting good at digging holes these days.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Gríma! Damn it-- _Gríma!_ ”

Sam nearly tumbled as he pushed through a shrubby area down the side of the hill. There was an unkempt semi-wooded space between cultivated fields just north of the road running from Michel Delving to Waymeet, and Sam had the unenviable task of searching through it for Frodo's lost pet.

Sam grumbled to himself, and swore under his breath. “Blast that Wormtongue... why'd he have to go run off? And why can't Mister Frodo just _let_ him go...” He paused to catch his breath and pull burrs from his trousers. It had gotten quite cold the night before, and Sam figured the man had found shelter somewhere, or else froze to death, but either way, he didn't all that much care. He was helping Frodo to search because it mattered to Frodo. Merry and Pippin had gone to retrieve Lotho Sackville-Baggins's bones, having obtained a casket from a woodworker in town. Mister Frodo, bless him, had paid for it out of his own pocket. Sam didn't much like Lobelia, who had given his father some trouble in the past, but to lose her only child in her old age was a hard blow.

Frodo seemed to think the blame was Saruman's alone, but it wasn't Saruman who planted the knife in Lotho's back, Sam figured. Maybe old Sharkey was the one what gave the order, but Wormtongue was still the one who did it. _He's just an old coward_ , though Sam. _Not as nasty as his old master, but hardly worth all this trouble._ Sam wasn't generally a spiteful sort, but after Gollum's final betrayal, he was fed up of these villains who played at being helpless but were anything but. Why was it Frodo who had to deal with these hopeless cases? Couldn't it be someone else's turn? Sam had caught Frodo rubbing at the old wound in his shoulder, with a pensive look on his face, more than once, and he knew it hadn't healed nearly as well as Frodo claimed. Some hurts don't mend easily, and being touched by such evil certainly left its mark, as all who had crossed paths with the enemy's servants would know. _Although, I do wonder what Saruman did to Gríma to make him half mute like that..._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam stood together, somewhat removed from the rest of the gathering. Frodo had felt an obligation to be present (after all, Lotho had been his cousin, however distant, and however unpleasant) and the rest of them had followed. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been weeping loudly earlier, as the grave was being dug to the left of her late husband Otho's, and the casket holding her only child lowered into the waiting earth below. The gravediggers were now shoveling the dirt back in and Lobelia did not seem to have the will to move. Several of her Bracegirdle relations were standing with her. A young cousin holding onto the bent hobbit-woman's elbow was quite possibly the only thing holding her upright.

The day had turned out to be one of the more miserable ones since Frodo had returned to the Shire, and he counted the day they returned to find Sharkey having upended everything in that list. Merry and Pippin were no Rangers but they were keen and observant, and had picked up a trail of disturbed brush and a few stray footprints near where they'd last seen Gríma. Merry had told him as they'd made their way to Lotho's funeral that he'd found another tree at the end of said trail with exposed roots where it appeared something too large to have been a fox or some other common wildlife had dug under and probably spent the night. It couldn't have been too warm, but would at least provided some cover from the wind that had howled all night long. In any case, Gríma had left his makeshift bed before Merry and Pippin had discovered it. They had not been able to pick up his trail again, though.

There was nothing to be done for it – Gríma was not a prisoner, whatever his crimes had been, and could leave as he chose. The man was clever, too clever by half, Frodo thought. But he could not help but feel his departure had been all too hasty, and wondered if Gríma would survive on his own.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gríma could travel quickly when he wanted to, even on foot. Years spent travelling back and forth from Edoras to Isengard, and to towns and villages across Rohan, had taught him how to travel light and travel swiftly. He'd certainly been sent on enough errands in his time, both by the wizard and by the king. He'd been trained and taught by the white wizard, the leader of their order, in all manner of lore, and yet he was forever being used as a mere errand-boy. It had annoyed him at the time.

_No one can tell you where to go now, can they?_

He definitely preferred travel on horseback, though. Perhaps his father's Rohirric blood was not so thin in him after all. His mind worked better when he was in the saddle, allowing a well-trained animal's own good sense to keep them on the road while his mind wandered elsewhere. Horses weren't as stupid as some people supposed, after all. Nervous and apt to panic at times, perhaps, but not stupid. Of course, his own mind had worked better for all sorts of reasons when he was still the lore-master, the king's adviser, the wizard's pupil... but those days were far behind him. The Shire, too, was now shrinking in the distance, lingering behind him in the direction of the Blessed West. There was no home for him, there. There was no home for him anywhere. He'd simply started walking. There was no one to tell him where to go, and so he did not know where to go. He simply went. What else was there to do?

It was January now and it was cold and getting colder. He'd stolen an old blanket from a barn that had probably covered a pony for years, judging by the smell. He still had a waterskin and the dagger he'd kept hidden in his clothes for most of his life, although the blade was not as sharp these days as it once was. It would serve well enough, he supposed. He was unlikely to find much to eat, unless he stole. He probably would steal, sooner or later. The Worm was not above such things after all. The hobbit had tried to give him his name back – _Gríma_ – but it wouldn't stick, not in his own mind. _Worm is not really nice_.

He was following a road east, at the moment. It lead... somewhere. Buckland, that was what one of the hobbits had called it. The one named Merry. He didn't think he'd stop there, though. There was a town further east, a town with men, and maybe even horses.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Frodo was sitting at the Cottons' kitchen table going through the Baggins family ledgers, trying to sort out what to do about the rebuilding of Bagshot Row, which had stalled due to insufficient materials. He could spare a bit, he thought, if it would get the Shire back to something resembling normal sooner. His neighbors had all pitched in to get their own smials repaired, but with so many trees cut down and burnt by Sharkey's men, good timber was not easy to come by at the moment, and bringing it from Bree was turning out to be expensive. Everything in Bree was built of wood, after all, other than a few of the smials built by hobbits outside of the main town up in Combe & Archet, and that town had suffered its own hurts during the war. Oh, the hobbits could cut down the smaller trees remaining in the Shire, but nobody had the heart to do it, frankly. The beams would likely not be thick enough to do the job properly anyway, and the last thing anybody wanted was a cave-in. Bookkeeping wasn't his favorite task, to say the least. It was a distraction from the memories of the day before, though, but now he was getting a headache from staring at Bilbo's cramped writing all morning. Normally Rosie kept the teapot full all day, but she was somewhere with Sam today, so Frodo rose to put the kettle on himself.

He'd just been about put the kettle over the fire when someone began banging on the door. Leaving it on the table, he rushed to let whoever it was in, and was only mildly surprised when Merry and Pippin ducked to shove their way in with haste as soon as he opened the door. Merry began delivering his news before Frodo had managed to say “hello.”

“He's headed toward Bree, we think. He was seen in Buckland last night, stole a chicken according to my cousin Berilac.”

Sam & Rosie arrived, slightly taken aback at the crowd standing just in front of the door. Sam paused and looked around. “What's going on, Mister Frodo?”

“They've found where Gríma is headed. Toward Bree, apparently. With one of Merry's cousin's chickens.”

Sam turned to Merry. “Well I'm sorry your cousin lost a chicken, but if he's left the Shire, I suppose that's the end of it. Bree has plenty of big folk, maybe he'll find work there, or something.”

Frodo shook his head. “No, Sam, I somehow doubt that. He still doesn't seem able to speak and while they may not recognize him there, he's unlikely to find friends, given how odd his behavior still is. The Bree men aren't truly wicked, as a group, but there are some in that town who might do him harm. Or he may harm them, out of fear or hunger. I don't think it's a good idea to simply let this pass. There's nothing for it – I shall have to go after him.”

Sam held out a hand, as if to stop Frodo from running off that instant. “No, Mister Frodo, you're still Deputy Mayor and Mayor Whitfoot needs you here. And somebody's got to see over the rebuilding in Bagshot Row, my Gaffer can't stop talking about how nice it will be to move back home. No, you went last time and I went with you. This time I will go, and I will go alone. I can find old Wormtongue just as well as you can. You've done too much this last year, carrying the ring.”

“You carried it as well, Sam, and more besides. I haven't forgotten.”

“Still, I think you'd best stay here, Mister. Frodo, for the sake of the Shire if not for yourself.”

Merry nodded, “Good idea, Sam, except the going alone part. We've cleared the last of Sharkey's men, I think. We haven't found any in weeks, and there are enough Bounders now to keep any who might return from getting their wish. Pippin can stay here and see that things run smoothly to that end, and I shall join you, and don't argue because you won't win.”

Frodo looked at Sam and Merry and felt outnumbered. “Do you really think the two of you will be enough? He can move fast when he wants to, and knows how to hide.”

“He's on foot, and we have the ponies. If he's pinching chickens, he doesn't have food, either, and will have to stop. We can catch up to him in Bree by nightfall, I think.”

“I suppose you are right. If he does not want to return to the Shire, I doubt we can convince him, but at the very least, take him some food so he does not steal any more of Berilac's chickens.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Nobody really paid Gríma much attention when he walked through the west gate of Bree that morning. They'd no doubt seen their fair share of pathetic refugees coming and going in the wake of the war. The gate guard had stopped him briefly, noted that he was alone and carried nothing with him, and had waved him through.

A stolen chicken roasted over a campfire with nothing to season it had not been an impressive breakfast, and the smells of the cooking fires inside homes was making his mouth water. He had no coin, though, and was now at a loss of what to do here. A few spared him a glance as he stood in the street, but no one seemed much interested in him. There were a few hobbits about, amongst the men, but they were not like the Shire variety, Gríma thought. They had the same guarded expressions as the men, and went about their business without much chatter.

Gríma began walking, following the main street through town. He arrived at what was clearly the inn. A worn sign declared it to be The Prancing Pony and Gríma briefly entertained the idea of going inside, before remembering that he had nothing with which to buy drink or food, much less a bed for the night. He sat down against a gate outside, instead, listening to the horses in the inn's stables behind him, listening to the animals in their stalls and a hobbit sweeping inside.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was evening by the time Sam and Merry arrived in Bree. They gave a description to the gate guard of the man they were looking for.

“Well, we've had a few come through today, and many with an unsavory look and plenty with dark hair, and many without much to say. He might have passed by, I suppose. I'd have to think about it a bit harder, perhaps, and it might come to me.”

Merry rolled his eyes and rode through with Sam coming behind him, not bothering to play the guard's game. “Very helpful, that gate guard. I think he very much has seen Gríma, but he wants coin for the information. Hmph. He can just keep wanting.”

“Well,” said Sam, “I can see Bree has not grown friendlier during the war. Gríma might fit in quite nicely now, if he's stayed.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The town gave way to fields past the south gate, and a few farms that dotted the landscape. He'd only meant to find a spot in the barn to hide, and spend the night. He hadn't stolen another chicken, although he'd helped himself to a few of their eggs, and some milk from the cow. He didn't actually enjoy stealing, really. He'd once been a lore-master. He was a man of letters and learning. He wasn't some common brigand. He kept telling himself these things, trying not to notice the dirt under his fingernails, or the scruff covering his jaw or the smell of stale sweat despite the chill of the weather.

_Worm is not really nice._

The noise suddenly coming from the paddock wasn't very nice, either, though. Gríma recognized the sounds of a distressed horse, and despite all his instincts telling him to remain hidden and unseen, he rose to his feet and rushed out toward the sound of the screaming beast.

The farmer, apparently, had no clue how to train a horse. He had the animal's bridle tied to a fence post and was lashing it with a thick tree branch, shouting curses. There was a saddle laying in the dust that Gríma surmised the man had been unsuccessful in getting onto the horse's back, and the dust down the man's back told the rest of the story.

Gríma's throat burned when he spoke, but he forced words out.“Stop that, you fool!”

The farmer turned around, his rage written plainly in his face. “Who the hell are you? Get off of my farm!”

“I shall when you stop abusing that horse.”

The farmer barked a laugh. “It's my damned horse to do as I please with, I traded good grain for it just yesterday, and if you don't want a taste of the same, then leave with all haste.”

Gríma looked around the paddock, his first instinct to run. The horse, he could now see was a young mare, stamped and blew and pulled at the rope tethering it, her eyes rolling in fear. It wanted to run. Gríma also wanted to run.

“Only a fool beats a horse he wishes to ride, it will always hate you in its heart.”

The farmer didn't bother to respond but rushed at him with the stick he'd been hitting the horse with. Gríma was smaller, but certainly faster. He ducked to the side, and grabbed the branch, twisting it out of the farmer's hands and turning back to face him.

The farmer hesitated, but only for a moment. “You really think you can best me, you little worm?”

Gríma hissed, planting his feet more firmly. The farmer rushed at him again, and Gríma's swing hit true. The man slumped over with a gash in his forehead. Gríma had not meant to hit him quite so hard, but he'd grown angry and now the job was done. He leaned over the farmer and found him still breathing. _I don't care about this man_ , he thought, as he ripped the farmer's own tunic and tied it tightly around his head. The bleeding would probably stop and eventually he might even awaken. _But I don't care if he does_.

The horse now stood eyeing him warily, shifting on its feet. Gríma spoke in low tones, elven words that he'd learned many years ago, working his way through his voice into the animal's mind, soothing its pain and panic. He was, after some long minutes, able to untie the rope and lift the bridle from its head, intending to open the paddock and leave the animal to its own choices.

Gríma turned to leave the paddock, and the horse followed him, nosing at his back. He stopped and turned, and ran a hand over its long head and thick neck. The air from its nostrils was warm and familiar.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Not all Breelanders were as tight-fisted as the gate guard, it seemed. Barliman Butterbur had remembered them and was quite happy to hand them mugs of ale and something to eat and chat a bit.

“A thin dark-haired man? Plenty of those around in these parts, sirs. If you can give more of a description than that... well you might try asking Bob or Nob. I've been indoors all day myself, but they might have seen your fellow come by.”

Merry wanted to have another mug of ale, but Sam dragged him away from the bar, bidding Barliman farewell. “We'll find him, I'm sure. The ponies need a rest, but we will ask around outside.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was getting late when they'd finally passed through the south gate. The ponies had rested and been fed and watered at the Prancing Pony, and they'd probably be returning there for the night if they did not have any greater success before too late. At least the guard at this gate had been more forthcoming. _“I did see a man of that sort pass through earlier, he was heading along the southern road. Looked a bit troubled, but didn't speak, so I didn't ask.”_

“He can't have gone too far, Sam. I suspect we're catching up now.”

Sam pulled his pony to a halt. “There's a farm just over there. Maybe there's somebody who's seen him. Or maybe missing a chicken or two...”

  
  


* * *

 

 

The farmer wasn't much happier to see the two hobbits than he'd been to see that nasty man who had taken his horse and ransacked his pantry. He was sitting at his kitchen table with a black eye and a cloth tied around his head and knot the size of a goose egg apparent underneath it.

“Oh your villain's been by here alright. Took my bloody horse, although I've no idea how, the animal was half wild and wouldn't take a saddle for nothing, no matter how much I...” The man coughed, not finishing the sentence. “But horse and saddle both are gone. Hell, he can have the worthless beast, and good riddance to both of them. If you catch him, I suggest you kill him before he can kill you. Evil look, that one had.”

Sam glanced at Merry, who met his gaze in an unspoken exchange, and then back at the farmer. “Thank you for your time, mister. I'm sure we'll find him sooner or later.”

Sam stood and Merry followed him. They were at the door when the farmer spoke again. “What do you want with him, anyway? Did he steal something from you too?”

Merry shrugged. “Something like that. Good evening, and I hope your head feels better soon.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was dusk when they left the farm, but the fading sunlight was just enough to follow the hoof prints back to the southern road. Sam wondered where Gríma intended to go. He'd looked at Bilbo's maps often enough, after all, and had some general idea of where the road led, but he couldn't see why Gríma should want to go to Dunland. The only other destination he could think of in that direction was Isengard, and he really couldn't imagine Gríma wanting to return to such a miserable, dark place, and he couldn't return to Rohan even if he'd wanted it.

“He's got a horse now, that'll make things trickier. A horse will be faster than our ponies, for sure. That farmer said it was wild but I have a feeling the horse might've thought the same of him, if you catch my meaning. Gríma didn't seem to have trouble taming it and now he'll move all the more swiftly for it.”

“You're right there, Sam. Not saying that it excuses what Gríma did, but he might've had cause to take the horse off him. The farmer said he couldn't get a saddle on it no matter how much he... well, _beat it_ , I would imagine he was about to say before he thought better of it. But Gríma apparently had no trouble with it. Well, he _is_ from Rohan. I don't know why it should strike me as so odd that he knows horses like that. He can't have always been Saruman's servant.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The mare was no horse of Rohan, to be certain. She was one of the shorter, stockier animals common to the north. Many of his former countrymen considered them to be of inferior blood, and perhaps they were. They could not match a horse of Rohan for speed, and they were too small to be ridden into battle, but Gríma knew well that they were hardy beasts that could carry a grown man despite being only marginally taller than a large pony. They could also cover long distances on substandard feed, and were clever animals, and Gríma was pleased indeed to have the mare.

Gríma might have held some brief regret for the manner in which he'd obtained her, but the farmer would only have kept the mare poorly and would have beaten her until she had no spirit left. _I know too well what it is like to be driven under whip. Not even a beast deserves such._

She was a fairly young animal and had been trained, but not trained well. Thus far she'd been well mannered, if undisciplined. He could mostly guide her with only a slight movement of the reigns, although she was still too easily distracted and a bit willful at times.

He did not want to pause yet, though. Something drove him on, though he knew not where. He went south because the south is where he came from. They would never again allow him passage into Rohan and he did not know what he would do should he come to the borders of his home.

Neither could he imagine going into Dunland, not so soon. His mother must have had kin there, though, at some time, although Gríma knew nothing about them. Those folk were hard pressed after the war, also, having been on the losing side of things. They were no closer to regaining any of their ancestral lands in Rohan, which he was certain was what Sauron's agents had promised them, as nothing less could have convinced such a staunchly independent people to throw in their lot with some other power.

So, he would ride south, and would go where he went. For the moment, Gríma had no master, and a horse beneath him, and that would have to be enough.

 


End file.
